her, french ivory cameo

some days... i fear... i have lost... all... my dirt... in streams... i can see virtue... in wearing plumes of vanilla... soaked chiffon, or soft cotton... tied 'round my ankles--waist--neck lined in hand stitched lace... eyelets cascade in trails... trace my silhouette... trace my arms... taper to hands like blades... i can see myself etched out in cameo... glass encased... facing my own reflection... starring out... obsidian eyed... at my past... undressed... and starved for attention... until i fell head over heels... for my future self... suckled and suckling... nectars of life... baptize my fired obsidian. sheathed. eyes... YOU ARE JUST... A MOTHER he said NOTHING MORE... and he cut me... but was not incorrect... and i saw how he loved me... and how it could be... so i turned... in to myself... with his light warming my back... pluck questions like grapes from the caves... of unpolished gems on mind... and wear them... charmed... through the seas of hard. fine. blowing sands. polishing me... for my future me's... and the one that will love... peeling this husk of my warm. maize. leaf. wrapped and tied self...

Luna's Uprising.

Flying around a bend in the river of road made magmic, crimson and bright--around Mt. Baldy. I spy her. Whispering duskily subtly spotted: a diagonal yawning platinum dawn discus drawn like ink, from Blackhearts coal Glacier Peak--through quill of raven variegated black. Nightrider’s pressing her--rising faster as the Captain steers in arched deviation, vaporizing the mountainside’s space—time, continually revealing her prematurely across sheeted panoramic glass control panels. One perfect circle—completing herself: pot-bellied, full. Suckling this rivers Captains and riders breath away. The land behind idles in diaphanous dark.

some nights.

a moonrise is simply a moonrise.